


in transit

by ohmyvalar



Category: In Bruges (2008)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Guilt, M/M, Sharing a Bed, can be read as either shippy or gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-22 07:03:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17658203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmyvalar/pseuds/ohmyvalar
Summary: Ken and Ray after the kid, before Bruges; on the way to purgatory.-They’re in Departure, waiting for their flight with hours to spare. And they’re at the airport bar, because there’s fuck-all in the hall except a litter of luxury stores and a sad excuse of a supermarket which “doesn't even havechewing gum!”Ray, from whom the childish complaint unsurprisingly came, has been churlish ever since Ken told him they were headed for Bruges. Now he's fidgeting about like a damn asylum loony, even as he clumsily gestures for another drink from the bar.





	in transit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asuralucier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asuralucier/gifts).



> hi there! i was scrolling through fandoms before matching went out, and was pleasantly surprised to see a prompt and letter for this small fandom!! hope you enjoy this treat!!

It’s a _1hr. 10mins._ flight to Ostend, Bruges. 

_Non-stop. Business Class._ The shitty travel pamphlet Ray picked up on a whim from the pretty customs officer, now discarded in another temperamental shift of mood, beams up at Ken like a salesperson’s empty smile. _“Experience the ‘Venice of the North’! Discover the medieval site of Old Town, the historical center of one of the most beautiful cities in Europe…”_ Nothing but the best for Harry's boys, even in exile. 

Despite himself, his sardonic humour is tempered by the scenic photography in the brochure. _The Belfry of Bruges. The Markt square. The Basilica of the Holy Blood…_ Ken is not a religious man - can any of them truly be, in this line of work? - but he appreciates the preserved beauty of historical legacies. Of architectural remnants worth remembering long after its original shrine had collapsed into forgotten dust. 

Ken can pinpoint exactly when this interest in history and culture had taken root. It was not long after his wife had - Well really, it was when he'd been sent to… 

“Did I ever tell you about the job in…” Ken begins, then drops his tone into a vexed growl. “Christ, would you stop _twitching about?”_

They’re in Departure, waiting for their flight with hours to spare. And they’re at the airport bar, because there’s fuck-all in the hall except a litter of luxury stores and a sad excuse of a supermarket which “doesn't even have _chewing gum!”_

Ray, from whom the childish complaint unsurprisingly came, has been churlish ever since Ken told him they were headed for Bruges. Now he's fidgeting about like a damn asylum loony, even as he clumsily gestures for another drink from the bar. 

For a grown - more or less - man ordering a drink financed from another man's wallet, Ray is being particularly unaccomodating today. Nevertheless Ken nods in silent assent at the bartender, who slides Ray his usual poison. 

The liquor swirling around in the clear glass is the shade of - well, a more affected man might call it something like liquid sunshine. But to Ken it is only a dirty yellow color that invokes in him a grim resignation. Dirty yellow, like the color of sewage water; and all of them the rats scuttling in the filth. Is that his life now? Is that what he has become? 

None of them are going anywhere. 

He supposes whiskey on the rocks looks the same from anywhere in the world. In London, in Heathrow. Even in Bruges. 

Now that Ken stops to think about it reasonably, the kid’s been in a mood since even before the news about Bruges - since his last hit. 

The target, a man of the cloth. The blood-stained church tiles. And the worst blasphemy of all: the kid, dead from a stray, sightless bullet. 

Ken has heard the story not once but twice. 

First from Ray himself, crumpled against his shoulder, his entire body convulsing with the unspeakable act, so alike and yet so utterly abominable compared to what he'd always done. It was the first time Ken had been made conscious of their differences in this way; in size, age and experience - not as a working partner, but as a human being to another. Clutched in his arms, Ray was almost like a child himself. 

And then again, from the impersonal report on Harry’s desk in his cold, cool office. _I'm sending you both to Bruges for a couple of weeks. Stay there, lay low. But do enjoy yourselves._ The painstakingly polite version of the later set of instructions issued to them both. 

_What’re the orders?_ He’d asked, dry-mouthed. Call Harry an amoral man, and no one could dispute it - but for one remaining philosophy. 

There was a photo frame on his boss’ desk, the sole sentimental effect in the clinical room. Ken’s eyes alighted on it then. Harry’s family. But because his life and work did not allow for the interference of even the slightest seed of sympathy for anyone, it was on only his kids that his protectiveness was focused. In channeling all his capability for outrage on violence against children, he cut off all stirrings of conscience for any other demographic. It was his saving grace, Ken supposed, from absolute inhumanity. But it might one day be his fatal flaw. 

He did not seem like the kind of man to send a new spare hire who had violated his one and only ethic away with no recriminations, instead of delivering him straight to hell. 

Harry had only smiled in reply. It was not the reassuring gesture he might have thought it to be. 

And so here they are. On the way to Bruges. 

But not quite there just yet. For now there are stuck in the purgatory of crowded airports. 

Ray knocks back his drink in a pugnacious motion. In his uncontrolled vigour, half of its contents spill down his shirt instead. Almost in unison, Ken and the bartender heave a sigh. 

Their target shoots the bartender a violent glare, but reserves another, more private look for his partner. 

Ray’s eyes are opened wide, in a way which makes his already youthful face boyish. Both the whiskey and his agitation have conspired to flush his cheeks with a warm glow. The furrow of his thick brows is betrayed, and abruptly the thought strikes Ken: Ray trusts him, enough to still be surprised by the least of his treacheries. Perhaps more than anyone else he has in this world. 

It is a disarming blow. With his glass at his lips, Ken’s throat works on its own accord and swallows a mouthful more than he rightly intended to. 

“What?” Ray asks defensively. His partner is perhaps more perceptive than most give him credit for. 

Then he looks down at his ruined shirt and instantly begins to rant on, breaking the budding tension in the air. “Oh _come on_ now, this is the only good shirt I packed -” 

Ken finishes the rest of his drink in a gulp, then stands up to leave without waiting for his partner to catch up. He is already striding away when Ray finally reacts. 

“- are you even listening to me?... Ken? Oi, Ken, you fucking asshole - !” 

Ken allows a smile to the tug at his lips as he starts walking faster. 

-

They wind up at the airport hotel. 

The receptionist doesn't even bat an eye when Ken asks for a single, and only smiles on tolerantly as he counts out the notes. 

Taking the room key, Ken slides a glance at his partner. Do they look like father and son? He hopes not. 

Ray is standing off to the side, staring at god-knows-what. After an entire day of shifting around he is now being uncharacteristically quiet. Maybe there's something to be said for the soothing properties of alcohol after all. 

In the sole room Harry provided enough cash to finance - Ken isn't spending anything out of his own pocket for a work-mandated holiday - there is, unsurprisingly, only one bed. 

Ken expects a fuss - or at least a complaint - but Ray only stalks over to the couch by the window and drops down into it. Ken watches as he fumbles for his glasses before retrieving a book from his hand luggage. 

They sit in respective silence for a while; Ken on the bed with a freshly made cup of coffee, Ray at the couch with his book. 

Then Ray says, suddenly: “Come and look at this, Ken.”

The summoned partner heaves himself up and looks. 

It’s a photograph - no, a sketch or a - a drawing. Sepia watercolors bring to life a Romantic-architecture grey-brown building behind a water fountain, the pool which it runs into seemingly flowing infinitely out of frame. But these elements only occupy the bottom half of the picture. Looming above, the skyline is as bleak as it is clear, like muddled water reflected in the canvas of the heavens. 

Well, a printed copy of the original drawing, at least. On its adjacent page is its title: “The Abandoned City”, _Fernand Khnopff (1858-1921)._ From his position over Ray’s shoulder he can't quite get a look at the book’s cover, but he gathers it's an art anthology of some sort. 

Although what his partner is doing with such a thing confounds Ken. 

“Listen, it says here that this was drawn in _Bruges.”_

“Where'd you even get this? Don't seem like your kind of thing.” 

“... Huh? I swiped it off the shelf at Waterstones. Seems like something you'd like, wouldn't you?” Ray turns to look up at him, lifting his glasses with the back of his finger. 

Ken stares. They give him a bookish sort of look; which is the furthest thing that could be said of his young partner, except. Except it's like looking into a mirror, or some kind of science-fiction parallel universe, where Ken never picked up the whiny, huffy, homeless kid and sent him to Harry instead of a social worker. Where he didn't hand the kid a gun instead of a normal life, or at least a shot at it, he doesn't know.

He doesn't know. Ken isn't some rich fuck philanthropist who can afford to indulge in the safety of his luxuries, and Ray isn't a charity case. Not his, at any rate. _Although, he thinks grimly, Ray wouldn't make a good charity case for_ anyone. 

There's something dangerously fragile in Ray's eyes as they stare at him, despite his outward impatience. Ken’s heart clenches, and speeds up, then slows back down again. 

The kid trusts him, maybe even looks to him for some modicum of approval and affection. That's the stinger of it all, even though it really shouldn't be. In the end that's all it comes down to. 

He used to be able to keep a tally of these things; the good against the bad, days and deeds alike. They all need their little justifications, their cheap philosophies. Harry has his bottom line, and Ken has a weighing scale. It's just that these days it's not all that balanced anymore. 

“Look, I - I know the boss sent us here because of me. Because I - because I killed - because I fucked up, okay, and we both know it. And now we're going to be stuck in fucking _Bruges.”_

“Hey, I think I'll like Bruges.”

“And look at this shitty painting - even this random fucking picture book I picked up has something of Bruges in it, and it's got some creepy ass story too. Listen to this: ““The Abandoned City” was perhaps inspired by Georges Rodenbach’s archetypal Symbolist novel _Bruges-la-Morte,_ for which Khnopff himself designed a cover for. _The Dead City of Bruges_. It is the story of a widower living in Bruges with the relics of his dead wife, who then has an affair with a dancer resembling her in appearance. However, he discovers her to be a foolish and licentious woman. The novel then ends in tragedy as he, after murdering his mistress in a fit of passion, remarks that she resembles his wife in death more than she ever did in life.””

Ray finishes, tossing the book face-down on his lap empathetically. “It's spooky, 's what it is! Me picking up this book, just as we're headed to _Bruges.”_

Ken side-eyes its title. It’s an art anthology all right - an anthology review of horror-inspiring art pieces, to be precise. 

“It's only an art book. Isn't meant to be taken as it is.”

He expects that to be the end of that; his younger partner taking an interest in the arts - however rooted in macabre superstition - is incredible enough that he cannot see it as anything but a passing whim. 

But Ray has latched onto the idea. “It's too much, Ken! T-the kid - what happened in London - and now this. It’s - it's Death, and it's following us! To Bruges!”

“We're hitmen, Ray. Death _is_ our business.” Ken replies patiently. 

His partner's face is flush with agitation, but his hands are clammy with cold sweat. Ken finds that last part out when Ray rises up suddenly, clutching at him wildly without focused intent. 

“You don't understand what it's like. You don't know how I -! I see him everywhere, Ken. There were a bunch of kids at the store. At first I didn't give a fuck about them - but then I felt a sorta - sorta kind of _pressure_ in my chest, ‘nd so I turned ‘round, and. One of ‘em was staring straight at me, Ken, and swear to fucking God it was _that kid_ -” By this point Ken has heard enough to restrain him gently. He cuffs his wrists with his own hands, and holds still through his panicked struggles. 

“That's when I bolted. With _this_ fucking book, out of all things - !”

“Shh. Calm down. Calm down, Ray. It was just a trick of the eye, of the mind. The kid's - gone. Harry took care of that. And that's why he's sending us to Bruges. To - take your mind off it. Calm down, Ray.” It's the soothing sounds, however brusque and inadequate they sound to himself, that seem to make his partner relax. 

Ray shudders in his grasp, then caves into himself. Back hunched, head low, he breathes hard. _In. Out. In. Out._ Ken watches warily, ready to intervene before his impulsive partner does something to hurt himself or them both. 

But Ray seems to have calmed down again. Slowly, weakly, he shakes his partner off. Ken lets him go. 

“You doing okay, Ray?”

His partner sucks in one more deep breath, then exhales in a rattling sigh. “No way I'm gonna be fucking okay when we're heading off to the middle of fucking nowhere, man.”

Despite his despondent words, Ray cracks a sheepish grin. Ken returns an encouraging smile. It seems like whatever storm threatening to brew over has passed. 

“Good, Ray. That's good.”

-

In the indeterminate twilight hours before their boarding gate opens, Ken falls asleep on the bed. When he wakes up Ray’s under the sheets beside him. 

The air-conditioner’s on, but between the preserved heat of the hotel room and their coats, it's getting a little stuffy. 

In the groggy realm of sleep, Ken reflexively reaches out to shove his partner further away - only to meet with resistance. He looks down blearily and sees that - 

Ray is clinging to his arm. 

Ken moves to pull himself free, but the younger man only tightens his grip. “... Ray?” He mutters softly. 

But his partner is still fitfully asleep. He doubts that he's even conscious of having snuggled up to him; knowing Ray, he would throw a fit about even sleeping in the same bed as another man. Once he establishes that any greater force would wake him and likely lead to more bitching, Ken settles for lying back down to sleep. 

And yet now sleep eludes him. 

The memory of Ray’s fit of panic earlier resurfaces and refuses to be erased from his mind. Unable to suppress the images, he sits up as best as he can without disengaging his partner. 

Ray's bushy eyebrows are furrowed together; although he cannot tell if it is in torment or if this is simply his partner's usual sleeping behavior. He does not seem in pain, at least. The peace of his slumber is only disrupted at intervals when he tugs tighter at Ken’s arm, pulling them closer together. Then his breathing regulates once more. 

Ken struggles out of his side of the coat as quietly and motionlessly as he can manage without waking Ray. Then, looking down once more at their joined arms, he resolves to go back to sleep with the new warmth brimming in his chest. 

The sensation of something hitting him rudely awakens Ken next. Groaning, he pulls what feels like his coat away from his face and sits up. 

“Up and at ‘em, old man.” Calls Ray from the other side of the room. “We're gonna miss our flight to Belgium-fucking-Bruges.”

_Huh._ “Glad to see you're back to your usual self.” Ken retorts, putting his coat back on. 

He sits by the bed, watching Ray fuss about the room. It's a strangely familiar sight that brings a small smile to his face. 

Was it all a dream then? Ken rubs his eyes, shrugs, and then hauls himself up to finally head for Bruges. He'll take whatever respite he has for now.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :)


End file.
